Oh, spring break. As you know, there was a little volcano in Iceland that screwed pretty much everyone in the program over if they didn't leave by Thursday afternoon. What you might not have known, however, is that at the same time (I swear they were conspiring together) France was having "a grave social disturbance" (note: they never once said "strike"). So my overnight train to Nice for Thursday night was cancelled, and the woman told me to try and catch the 7am train the next day--well, I returned, defeated, to my apartment, and woke up early the next morning to try again. When I got to the train I was a little confused, since they said to just use my same ticket, but what would happen to the seat assignments? Well, I was soon answered as I saw people trying to pile into the train--people were standing with huge bags of luggage in the aisles and everyone was squashed into the windowless compartments between cars (you know, by the stairs), prepared to stop breathing for eight hours. I managed to jump into the compartment (I've learned a thing or two from the French in how to get to the front of the line) past a line of families, only to be greeted by a nice stench of B.O. and an old woman coughing up a lung. I could barely even last thirty seconds, let alone eight hours, so I hopped on out and went back to my apartment a second time, completely sure that there was no way I was going to be able to go to Nice. There was no mention of when the strike was going to end, and they were telling everyone that no more trains would go to the Southeast portion of France (which is a big portion, might I add, and contained two legs of my trip). When I got home Beatrice threw a hissy fit and started screaming Sarkozy's name in vain and would tell my sob story to every mom that came to drop off their kid. I spent the rest of the morning researching last-minute spring break ideas and it seemed like everyone in France had something to say about my story and took pity on the poor American who just wanted to go on spring break--the cleaning lady even dropped in my room for a chat to complain about France and Beatrice made sure to share with me some of the snacks she bought for the children.
The third leg of my trip was supposed to be spent biking around the chateaux in the Loire Valley. The weather was supposed to be great all week, so I just decided to lengthen my biking stay from one day to...six. I managed to find this book entitled Cycling France and the author gave some pretty irrésistible (spell check is now apparently in French on my computer) descriptions of trips that made it seem like I would be biking through fields of sunflowers past fairytale castles. I pictured myself on a bike with a basket in front with a warm baguette chilling there, laughing and slowly cycling in no hurry whatsoever.
HA. It was anything BUT that vision. But it was amazing, let me first put that out there. According to the book, I was supposed to start my journey in a little town called Saumur, so I decided to get there Sunday afternoon and start biking on Monday. I'm not going to go into much detail about the train, but let's just say I had many WTF (also known as Welcome to France) moments which include my train once again getting cancelled and missing the only connecting train. A bus ride and some nice French people later, I made it to Saumur relatively unscathed by 9pm (having left my apartment at 9am...it was supposed to only take an hour to get there). Welcome to France. Anywho, I spent the night in a relatively abandoned hostel in which I was the only resident and rented a bike from a guy who took one look at me and upon hearing that I was to be biking to Blois in five days, told me that should I need to, I could abandon my bike at another store in a town along the way and take the train back to Paris. I laughed at his condescending advice and put on my Raybans, mounted my bike in a simple jeans and t-shirt, and started riding along the Loire River on my way to my first town, Chinon. Let me also point out that the backpack I had packed a week's worth of stuff into was too heavy to put on the back of my bike, so he gave me something like a saddle bag to put half of it into, and I had the rest in my backpack which I wore the whole way. I didn't even have that much stuff, I only really brought like two outfits and suntan lotion, but man, that stuff is heavy. But let's continue with the story.
Day two was easier in difficulty of the ride because I was more prepared for the hills and the distance. Plus I had my ipod to help me keep going, because as beautiful as the birds and the rushing water of the Loire is, it got old by the end of the day and just made everything seem longer. I wasn't sure I was going the right way for the first hour of the day because there were literally no signs and I found myself in a tiny village (it probably couldn't even be described as a village, as it only had one street of houses) and had to call my dad to check Google Maps for me to see if I was going the right way. I invariably was, I just was never sure when I was so used to seeing the "trusted" signs. As far as I can remember day two was relatively fine, I had bought some bread at the boulangerie in Chinon but spent the entire day in search of some fruit. The only grocery store in Chinon was closed "indefinitely" so in every single village I went through I kept my eyes out for some sort of market or stand or whatever that would sell fruit--it was this strange craving that I had. And I learned that any sign for Carrefour or whatever supermarket that was supposedly "up ahead" just did not exist. I took a 10km detour to a cute town because I had seen an ad, but no, it was in vain. On the way to my destination, Azay-le-Rideau, I stopped in Villandry to see the château, but was only able to walk around the gardens and take random pictures because I was so incredibly exhausted and I still had 12km to go. Those 12km took forever because there were no "rolling hills"--more like mini-mountains I would say! I remember stopping halfway up the "hill" to take a picture and when I was done I was contemplating continuing on foot, but then two girls were riding their bikes downhill past me and one said in French that I couldn't quit now, I wasn't finished. So I sucked it up and conquered that hill and soon arrived at the sleepy little town that was nestled in vineyards.
I was then rewarded the next morning because when walking around after breakfast I found the weekly farmer's market and bought a gorgeous carton of the most delicious strawberries I have ever tasted and a nice big orange. Day three I spent taking little ten minute breaks to eat the strawberries and right now I am amazed at how high my morale was then, even after seeing the sign to Loches, with "80km" next to it. Loches was unfortunately not on my map of the Loire Valley trail, but located in the Indre valley, another river that runs south of the Loire, and luckily there was a similar trail with signs and everything to lead the way. I got lost a few times because the signs vaguely pointed between two roads, but with my ipod everything was fine and I rode at a much faster pace because I was nervous I wouldn't make it to Loches before my usual time. Normally I left the hotel at 11am and would arrive at my destination by 4pm. But as the days went on I found myself anxiously starting earlier and getting to my destination later and later, even though I rode faster and took fewer breaks. I didn't realize the distance was increasing so much every day. My arrival in Loches was chaotic and jarring because it was more of a big town than a village, like the others, and I found myself biking into multiple rotaries where huge highways would intersect--very European. By the time I arrived at the tourist office (I always followed the signs there and then would pick up a map of the village/town/city to find my hotel) my spirits were really low and I just resigned to walking my bike to my hotel. When I called my parents to check in that night I was contemplating giving up my bike and taking the train to Paris the next morning, but I didn't have internet access to find where the bike office (if it existed) was located, and I didn't want to give up, so the next morning I grudgingly woke up and began day four, in very, very low spirits.
Day four was complete and utter hell. It was the day I lost my sanity, the day I had to ride against the wind, the day my ipod decided to break, and the day I spent three hours riding between Loches and it's neighboring village (sur-Loches or something) completely lost and miserable. I was already nervous about leaving Loches because I really didn't want to run into any more complicated rotaries and I didn't really have complete faith in the fact that there was indeed an Indre River trail that was supposedly going to meet up with the Loire River trail. My eight euro map that I had bought in Azay-le-Rideau wasn't very detailed and my Loches map didn't help either--that was all the tourist office could offer. I tried following the Indre River signs (like the one pictured above) through the neighboring village that would take me to Chenonceaux, which was where the famous Chenonceau Château is located and where I would then pick up the Loire River trial to head to my destination, Amboise. But the signs just stopped appearing and the map didn't mention where they would go. I literally took every single road that the sign could have meant, but it led me to all the wrong places. I then went back to the Loches tourist office to start over and maybe try the guidebook's directions again, but once again his signs didn't exist. That morning I christened my bike Rudy, which was as close to naming a volleyball Wilson as I could get. In the neighboring village sur-Loches or whatever it was called, I literally passed the same mailman on his morning route eight times. He just chuckled every time I passed him. On my eighth trip through the town center, I stopped for probably the fortieth time that morning and took out my map and compass, utterly confused as to where to go. An amazing old man got out of his car carrying a shovel and walked over to me and told me in French that he was the best person I could meet if I was lost because he knew the area like the back of his hand. We then proceeded to speak in Franglais (he was traveling to India in a few weeks and wanted to practice his English...?) and told me how to get to the highway I wanted in order to get to Chenonceaux. By this time it was noon and I finally headed in the right direction, entirely grateful to this little old French man. A few killer mini-mountains later and I had to stop on the grass of the highway, still not completely sure where I was going, and wanting to give up right then and there. That moment, sitting on the side of the highway, was the worst moment of the trip. It wasn't the physical exhaustion that I felt. My body was surprisingly not sore--I was able to do every part of the journey, probably because the only part my butt didn't hurt was when I was on the bike. It was just constantly getting lost and realizing that I wasn't getting everything that I wanted to out of this trip.
Day five was better, but still not as fun as the other days. I knew that it was a shorter trip, so that definitely helped, but by this time I was pretty jaded and totally not trusting the trail signs. The previous day, to add to the fact that the signs led nowhere outside of Loches, they also towards the end (when I eventually found the trail) just made up distances to Chenonceau. At one point they told me I was only 12km away, which made me really happy even though I was riding against the wind and the sky was looking like it was going to rain. But then 12km later, the sign said 20km. And 20km later, the sign said 15km. So you can see why on Friday I was a little hesitant to be so happy about the supposedly short distance. I got to ride through some beautiful forests and even had a short conversation with a ten year old French boy who was biking in the opposite direction with his family. The trail must have been longer than I thought, because I arrived in Amboise an hour or two after I should have gotten there, but the ride was uneventful and relatively easy. I parked my bike near the château and decided to enjoy myself, and so I walked around the cute town (probably a little smaller than Loches, it looked like) and walked to the tourist office and the bike store, not wanting to deal with Rudy anymore. I then dropped off my bike, bought some lunch at a cute boulangerie, and walked to the train station and took the 4pm train to Paris. And then just a few short hours later I was back home and didn't realize just how much I had missed it. My legs could barely support me but I had the house to myself (Beatrice was at her country home in Brittany for the week) and could finally relax. It was weird.
So yeah, that was my epic adventure. I still can't believe I biked that far. I don't regret coming home a day earlier in the slightest. And even though it was incredibly hard, I'm so glad that I did it. Maybe I won't get back on a bike for a month or two, but I can see myself doing something like that again...in the distant future...when I'll have a better clue about what I'm getting myself into. Sorry for the novel, but I feel like people can't understand what I actually went through with only a few words to describe it. So if you've read this far, congrats. And thanks.
Also: flickr's been updated.
